He was friends with Bonnie and Clyde. And his life of crime ended in Fort Worth.
No one remembers Raymond Hamilton today, but they sure remember his pals, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. That duo carried out a two-year crime spree across multiple states during the Depression that put them near the top of the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list.
Their reign of terror ended on May 23, 1934, in a Louisiana ambush. Their bank-robbing pal Raymond Hamilton was still free, however, and moved to the top of the list of “Texas’ most-sought desperadoes.” Some reporters even crowned him “Public Enemy No. 1” on the FBI’s list.
Clyde and Raymond had been close enough that Clyde busted him out of the Eastham prison farm on Jan. 16, 1934, killing a guard in the process. They resumed their bank-robbing spree until a dispute over the split of the loot from a Dallas bank caused them to part ways.
Three months later, Hamilton was nabbed for another bank robbery and sentenced to a total of 263 years for multiple crimes. On July 22, 1934, he and five pals shot their way out of the Huntsville penitentiary in the most sensational escape in that prison’s history.
Hamilton alone got away unscathed and stayed free. He seemed to have a charmed life as he escaped subsequent police traps in blazing gun battles that took him from Texas to Mississippi to Tennessee in a string of robberies and kidnappings. He finally slipped back into Texas and dropped out of sight. The FBI and authorities in three states were now looking for the man dubbed “the blond bandit from West Dallas.” He was only 22 years old.
The formerly dapper outlaw was reduced to the desperate life of a “Wanted” man. He donned grimy coveralls, slept in empty buildings, and lived from hand to mouth.
The nine-month manhunt ended in a Fort Worth rail yard on April 5, 1934. Hamilton had sent a note to his sister in Dallas. The messenger was caught by Dallas Deputy Bill Decker and revealed Hamilton’s whereabouts, the Rock Island rail yards just east of downtown Fort Worth.
Decker, his sheriff R.A. Schmid, and three more deputies drove to Fort Worth and enlisted the help of Fort Worth Detective Chester Reagan and Tarrant County Deputy Sheriff Carl Harmon. They slipped into the rail yards near the Belknap bridge while other officers blocked either end of the bridge with their cars.
The little posse made a sweep of the yards walking south from the bridge. They came upon Hamilton some 50 feet north of the East First Street overpass “sprawled on the tracks” with “six or seven other bums” nearby. He had two .45s on him and a suitcase full of new clothing beside him.
Bill Decker walked up to him and covered him with his pistol. “Hoist ‘em, Ray, before I cut you in two,” he commanded the surprised fugitive, or words to that effect. The other officers closed in with guns drawn, and Hamilton meekly surrendered. They handcuffed him, threw him into a car, and roared off to Dallas.
The next morning, a Dallas Morning News headline trumpeted Hamilton’s capture by a “Dallas posse.” Pictures in the Star-Telegram told a different story. They showed the fugitive standing between Detective Reagan and Sheriff Smid right after his capture.
Subsequent investigation revealed that Hamilton had been hiding out in the area for days. When detectives showed his photo around, it turned out he had been eating at the Round House Café (507 Diamond) and drinking beer at Choate’s Famous BBQ stand (1415 Peach). Neither the owners nor regulars thought anything unusual about the quiet tramp sitting alone.
Hamilton apparently slept in a “toolhouse” under the East First Street overpass. The foreman of the yards had noticed him hanging around the area but didn’t bother him. “He was very polite,” recalled Tom Stanfield. Other employees thought Hamilton was “just another tramp” among many who passed through the rail yards riding the rails or looking for work.
Hamilton was a true gangster-celebrity like John Dillinger or Pretty Boy Floyd. Back in Dallas, more than 500 curiosity-seekers swarmed the courthouse hoping to get a look at him. It was reported that “parents brought their babes in arms, and youngsters ... rubbed elbows with women in formal dress and men in overalls.”
His luck had run out, however. On May 10, 1935, he was executed in the electric chair for the murder of the Eastham guard.
Author-historian Richard Selcer is a Fort Worth native and proud graduate of Paschal High and TCU.